Flash Forward
by AleTheHOUSEwife
Summary: Post season 8 – House/Wilson/Cuddy ––– House stood up from the bench, his leg heavier than ever. Facing the Pacific Ocean, he tried to blend with the flailing, crazed purple water. It was sunset, and the sky looked like it was ready to break loose and suck every trace of the human race into some sort of unforgiving vortex. House found himself hoping it was the end of the world.
1. Passage

Chapter 1

**Passage**

"_Once the dawn froze down upon us, I will let you go."_

* * *

House stood up from the bench, his leg heavier than ever. Facing the Pacific Ocean, he tried to blend with the flailing, crazed purple water. It was sunset, and the sky looked like it was ready to break loose and suck every trace of the human race into some sort of unforgiving vortex. House found himself hoping it was the end of the world and that everything would just disappear forever. Instead, it just started raining heavily and he got soaked in five minutes. Wilson's dead body lay inside some unknown morgue in some unknown hospital on the Pacific coast of the United States of America, and all House knew about that was that his only friend in the world had died in his arms in unbearable pain, and what could not help but strike him was that despite his body being seized by the illness, Wilson's eyes had never lost that inexplicable sort of warm nuance every time he looked up at House from his death bed. Of all things that could make him suffer, that were making him suffer, Wilson had died happy.

And now that Wilson was dead, House knew he could just let go and be desperate. No one was looking at him for hope anymore. No one was leaning on him. No one _needed_ him anymore. He was alone, now and for all days to come.

Feeling sick from his thoughts, House made a wish upon the restless waves of the ocean.

_Take me._

Then, he jumped from the pier.


	2. Providence

Chapter 2

**Providence**

* * *

House could hear the silence now governing his whole consciousness. It was peaceful. His blood was tired of flowing to his head, there was almost no air inside him anymore and his heart was finally resting after the years during which it had gone through the trouble of beating. That day inside the burning warehouse was just a rehearsal for _this_ day, the final one. He had postponed his impeding end for a good reason, the only good one, and he had never, ever regretted that. Now, though, it was indeed time to let go, because despite the words of his demons convincing him he could live for the puzzles and by the tirelessness of his ever-working brain, House knew now that he could not live without being loved or cared about. Everybody who had ever loved him was now gone, either taken by death or driven away by House himself, and those whose affection he could have still leaned on were living with the certainty that he was long dead. It was time to accept that he, House, was human: he had accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish before his final goodbye. Wilson had died happy, all the others he loved had learnt from him whatever they thought they could take. It was time to let go, because there was nothing left for him to do for anybody else.

Of course, it did not occur to House that he might do anything for himself.

He let go, slowly falling deeper and deeper into the cold waters of the ocean, his lips spreading to let the sea in. He had to keep on fighting the clashing urges to breathe and to keep his lungs shut down. He wanted that. He needed that.

And suddenly, there were flashes and blurry images floating freely before his eyes, the ghosts of a lifetime of failures, mistakes... It was all so cliché, he thought, so very similar to the dull images described by writers and seen in movies: your life flashing in black and white before your dying eyes, all the pivotal moments, the turning points, the roads taken and those left... and then he was seeing in colors again: there were walls, an unknown room filled with sunlight, something more real than every hallucination he had ever had and definitely different from those ever-changing scenes created by his oxygen-deprived brain.

_He was seated beside Cuddy's hospital bed. _She was asleep, her expression peaceful, though tired. House did not feel the water surrounding him anymore, or the cold, or his hurting chest and lungs struggling and fighting. It was real, and it was so concrete. _He was seated beside Cuddy's hospital bed. Cuddy's. _The only one who had not visited his final hours in the burning building, months earlier. He had thought she was gone from his subconscious, and yet here she was, pale and asleep, resting underneath the bed sheets. What was he doing there? What was that feeling of utter relief, and that magnificent sense of redemption and forgiveness filling his soul with warmth? Why was that all happening? House threw a glance at the wall clock. It was nine sharp in the morning, and the calendar said it was May 20th next year.

"Hi." Cuddy whispered.

She was now awake. She was smiling at him, although her eyes were filled with tears.

"You're alive. You ruined my jump, again."

Cuddy stretched her shoulders, tilting her head back.

"I seem to be _bound_ to keep your ass alive, House." She smiled. "One way or another."

"Yeah. Look, I... Are we okay?" House heard himself pronouncing those words but he did not know why, what it was that had made him say that. He was just _so relieved_.

"I love you." Cuddy lifted up her hand to touch his scruff. He got chills running down his very spine.

And then House knew he had to swim back to the beach. It was so close and yet his arms were just so _weak_. He closed his eyes as an enormous, providential wave lifted his helpless body, just to throw him flat back onto the foreshore, a few seconds later.

–

"He's not breathing!"

A woman's voice, coming from miles and miles away. Someone pressing lips onto his open mouth, forcing air into him. The pain.

Five seconds of nothingness.

"Call Trauma!"

Then again, a blow of air lifting his chest. A pounding sensation, then the feeling of drifting away slowly, and the water freezing his lungs dead. His heart had stopped beating.

"Come on!"

Pressure on his chest.

Another blow of air.

Another push.

One heavy, pounding, _noisy_ heartbeat. Blood rushing back to his head. Warmth filling his extremities.

He blinked his eyes open for a few seconds.

"He's coming out of it!"

Someone lifting his head.

Another beat.

His eyes blinking open again, a blurry vision of the ocean in front of him being obscured by _her very_ _eyes_, real, concrete, the smell of _her_ presence beside him.

House turned his face aside, tiredly, his voice hoarse and his pitch more throaty than ever.

"What _the_ _hell_ are you doing here?"

He had two or three seconds to see Cuddy's astonished expression, before the cold water made its way back up his chest. Then, he delivered his failed death down onto the sand and passed out.

* * *

a/n: hello everybody! thanks for the unexpected, great feedback on chapter 1! This fic is M rated so you'll get that M you are probably reading for, but it's not gonna come very soon, so be patient and enjoy the ride. I have a few nice surprises in store for this, and I hope I can finish all my open stories too. I'm so glad to be back really, I've had the worst writer's block, plus all the House feelings hitting me after the finale and the vids that needed to be edited about that... not to mention that I'm kind of a busy bee re:uni at the moment... it all wasn't helping my writing muse. And then suddenly...


	3. Destiny

Chapter 3

**Destiny**

* * *

"Mister? Hey mister," A young man with an Indian accent gently patted House's shoulder. "Wake up, _mister_."

House opened up his eyes just to stare at the curtains surrounding what must be his bed in some emergency room. Suddenly, he remembered those same curtains surrounding another bed, his own hands pulling them apart to call for help, someone's grip on his wrist seconds before he could dash out to get a doctor. It was that same place from two days earlier. The place where his friend James Wilson had died. _Wilson_.

"Hey mister."

"_What_."

"You must wake up. Doctor says you go. I'm here to clean up."

"Uh." House squinted his eyes, trying to focus. He brought a hand to his forehead, in a vain attempt at easing an obnoxious headache.

"What happened?" He whispered.

"Don't know. You jumped, nurse say you have no ID, jumpers always have. Not you." The boy started collecting House's stuff from a small cabinet beside the bed.

"I jumped from _where_?"

"Pier. Many do."

House shook his head, then it all came back in a rush of blood to his now fully awake brain.

"_Goddammit_."

"Doctor Cuddy said you are an idiot, mister."

"Doctor Cuddy? Where is she?" House sat up. "Where is she? I need to talk to her."

"She home. Sorry."

"Look, uhm.. what's your name?" House scrambled to get to his backpack. He felt dizzy as soon as he got to his feet. Leaning against the nightstand, he turned to the boy. "Look, I can pay you. Please, tell me where she is. It's very, very important that..."

"Doctor Cuddy specifically requested to be kept informed about your conditions." Another voice. Another person standing between the pulled ends of the curtain. "I'd say I can report that you are fine and going home now, sir. Thank you for taking care of him, Ahsan."

A woman in her fifties, tall. Somehow scary in her white coat, hanging from her incredibly thin, tanned body as if it had been thrown on it by mistake. House raised his brow.

"...And you are?"

"...In charge of this place, sir. As I said, you're free to go."

Ahsan was nowhere to be seen again. House's possessions lay on the bedsheets in a plastic bag, beside his backpack and jacket.

Five minutes later, House was fully dressed in his last clean clothes, miraculously pulled from what was left of his things after the last week. He walked out of the improvised room.

_Where the hell is Barbie._

"Hey!"

_Barbie_, who was signing some files by the nurses' counter, turned back as if she knew already that House was calling her. Her eyes expressed nothing but annoyance.

"Do you need anything else, sir?" She asked in a fake, soothing tone.

"You can bet."

She entwined her hands, stretched her lips and tilted her head aside. The whole picture gave House goosebumps, and not of the good kind. He noticed that she must have had plastic surgery to her cheeks, and most certainly to her breasts. He walked closer, lowering his voice.

"Look, doctor... whatever your name is. My friend James Wilson died here yesterday. I... I need to tell doctor Cuddy what happened, because..." House took a breath. "Because she has no idea and she needs to know. I'm gonna disappear as soon as I tell her that. _Boom_." He mimicked the act with his hands. "_Just. Let. Me. Talk. To. Her._"

Barbie raised her brows. House thought her face was going to be ripped apart in seconds. Instead, she slightly turned towards the entrance of the ER.

"_Security_."

–

"Yo."

House lifted up his eyes just to see the security officer who just had him kicked out handing him a can of Coke. The man sat down beside him on the curb, right in front of the entrance. People were coming in and out. Ambulances passing by. People cheering at some new dad. An old man in tears, holding a black and white photograph. A woman selling flowers.

"I'm sorry man."

"Yeah."

"Look, you gotta see someone, you know. Shrink. Mom. _Someone._"

"I don't think so."

The big, black guy the size of a small wardrobe in length and breadth turned to him and placed his giant palm onto House's right shoulder.

"She's gonna talk to you eventually. You give her time, man."

"Who, doctor Cuddy?" House could not help but raise a resigned smile. "I really don't think so."

"Trust the Lord, man!"

"The Lord and I, we've been at each other's throats for some time now."

"Oh you don't say that!" Security Guy saddened. "You, me, everyone. We are part of a plan. Must be."

"Was it part of the plan to kick me out of the hospital?" House asked.

"Nah. That was doctor Plastic's plan. Dude, she has me do awful stuff."

House giggled. "Who, Barbie?"

"You said it, man. She's in charge of the ER."

"Well, she killed my last chance to deliver a very important message." House's expression turned dark. "I'm gonna get arrested and thrown in jail _again_ if I get any closer to Cuddy than the curb of her new workplace."

"Is that why you jumped?"

"No. That was because my best friend died." House found it almost tragicomic, hearing it from his own lips but as if he was watching the scene from an external point of view. Crazy pier jumper, ex con for domestic violence, homeless, thrown out of a hospital because of a plastic boobed Barbie doctor from somewhere in California. He had seen any kind of garbage movies, but his own life beat them all.

"Dude. I'm so sorry!" Security Guy was, on the contrary, extremely touched by the crumbs of House's story he had heard so far. "What happened to him?"

"He... just... died. He got sick, and I took care of him. But... he died." House could not go any further. That was the first time he was telling the story to anyone. That whole matter had been kept between him and Wilson for months, and now it was out in the open. It felt very strange and very liberating.

"I see." Security Guy looked up at the sky. "You wanted to tell doctor Cuddy."

"I did. He was her friend too."

"I will tell her for you, man."

House turned to his companion. "What?"

"I will tell her to call you, that you need to talk to her, _something_... She will hear it from a police officer. She will listen to you then."

"That's..." House wasn't sure how to interpret this gesture.

_Is someone being kind to me?_

"...That's not needed. Someone will tell her anyway. Wilson's parents are taking him home tomorrow."

"You gettin' cold feet? Come on, you came all the way here to tell her."

House instantly saw the giant misunderstanding lying beneath their entire exchange.

"I came all the way here on a motorbike, from Princeton, New Jersey. I was with my dying friend, to... do something, _together_, before he died." House quit talking for a few seconds, then his voice turned so low anyone could have barely heard him. "I took him here yesterday. He died from pulmonary edema. I had some nurse call his mother, and then," House gestured at the sea in front of them. "I walked to the pier, over there and... you know what happened next."

Security Guy did not seem to get the undermining power that House believed his statement could bring to the whole of his own image in his new friend's eyes.

"That was... I know no shit about you, but one thing I know: you're not bad. Hope he died happy."

"He did."

"See? How can you be a bad person? I'm sure doctor Cuddy knows that."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"So you jumped off the pier because your friend died, and doctor Cuddy was there and saved you, _by chance_?"

"I swear to your god I had no idea she works here." House stood up, his cane and the Coke were the only things preventing him from falling to the ground. "I would have jumped from some other pier otherwise. Believe me."

Security Guy's beeper went off. He stood up and placed both hands onto House's shoulders.

"Man, this is _your destiny_. Praise the Lord."


	4. Sequelae

Chapter 4

**Sequelae**

* * *

House did not know where to go. He just sat on that curb, watching people come and go, hypnotized by the glares of the ambulances and the far away lights of the night coming alive downtown. Just one week ago, he was with Wilson. He would have probably just finished up his daily routine of taking care of him. At that time of the day he would clean the mess of pharmaceuticals, dirty towels and empty IV bags they had in the small house Wilson had rented on the beach before he could get too sick to discuss anything. House would have cleaned him, changed him and put on some music. That was what he would do every day, what he could have done till the end of the world, if only Wilson could have lived that long. And now, seven days later, his friend was gone and House was missing every inch of him and even the idea of missing him made him miss Wilson more.

He had to get the motorbike back. His driving license, his ID, it was all there with it, parked in front of the beach house. The rent was over. House was officially dead so he could not do anything to keep the place. It had all been done in Wilson's name, and frankly, they had been lucky no cop had run a cross check on House's ID and license, the couple times they had bumped into a road block.

He had no purpose now, so sitting on the curb was just something he could do in place of anything else. Being saved, being left dying at sea, it did not even matter that much. Thinking back of it, his jump had been an idiotic gesture.

House found himself standing at Wilson's funeral, back home. He could see everybody circling the coffin: his team, Foreman, even those who had left were back. It was going to be a replica of his own funeral, six months later, with a bit less bitterness and the same unmeasurable love, or maybe an ounce more of that. House's ounce. He saw Wilson's family staring at a hard paper box sitting in front of the grave. It was full of those little objects Wilson's patients had given him in the years, those same ones he had shown House when he had told him he wanted to die with some dignity left. And now he _was_ dead, like anybody else who had died before him and would die after him. Dignified or not, happy or miserable, alone or surrounded by friends. Wilson had died before House's eyes, and the only thing that he was not at peace with, when he had taken his last breath, was that he was leaving House alone.

That was why House felt so angry. He was angry at himself for provoking that sort of concern in his dying friend, who should have been the center of everything. House would have never known that Wilson's worry for him, his love and concern for his friend's life, were what had kept him going every day, to be with House just a little longer than he should have, even though it might mean one more day, or one more week. And, at the same time, House had kept his smile on just for Wilson, until the very last second of his life he had worn his best smile just for him. Their codependency had kept them both alive and even happy: they had been responsible, unwillingly so, for each other's happiness. And now that Wilson was gone, House could not see the point in wearing smiles or sacrificing things. No one deserved it as Wilson had. Another thing that did not occur to House, was that maybe, and for once, he himself deserved his own smile.

In House's head, the funeral was full on. There were kids chanting in Hebrew, and people crying. He could easily picture Cameron's circled eyes, Thirteen's crystalline stare piercing the coffin, Chase and Foreman standing next to each other, Taub coping in his strange, indestructible way. He could see Sam and Bonnie looking at each other with some sort of reciprocal understanding that hey had loved the same person and left him for the same reason, though not loving him any less after that, and he could see practically everybody from PPTH standing in the rear of the crowd, paying their homage to one of the most beloved doctors that place had ever hosted. Of course, only he, House, could have delivered an eulogy true to Wilson's real character, talking about his love for monster trucks and Brazilian soaps and how badly allergic he was to women who didn't need to be protected by him, and how lonely and messed up he really was, and naïve... and all these things that had made Wilson an epic kind of friend.

But in this funeral scene, House simply did not belong. Because he was as dead as Wilson in those guests' eyes. It was bound to be a sappy and sad funeral because there was no one there to tell them the utter fun and the love House and Wilson had shared during the last six months. Everybody would just think it was right that they were both dead, because neither of them would be able to live without the other. And this was the point: Wilson _was_ dead, and House was _not_.

–

"No."

Cuddy froze on the spot, both hands lifted, eyes closed, regaining her balance. The contents of House's backpack lay scattered on the ground. It started raining again.

"No." She repeated. "You're not here and I didn't just trip into your... _things_."

House lifted his stare up to her. She was wearing scrubs, her hair was pulled back and she had a carry-on bag hooked to her left shoulder.

"You coming back from the Dean's private spa? They know how to live, down here."

"I'm not the Dean..." Cuddy looked like she was beginning a very long and articulated explanation, but then she quit talking and shook her head. "oh, what the _hell_. You're not here and I'm not talking to you."

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and took a step forward.

"Hey." House's voice came out light and low as a feather. He could not have been more serious and he made as if to stand up, but as always, he remembered too late that he wasn't the type who can sit down on the ground and get up as easily. He fell back onto the curb, and leaned back with both hands, looking up at Cuddy, who had been watching the whole scene without a blink of her eye.

"I won't chase you into this... place. I am a man of honor." He joked.

"Also, you cannot walk properly, let alone chase anybody. _Go. Away._" Cuddy could not have been more detached.

"Cuddy, there's something I need to tell you." House whispered.

Cuddy, who was already halfway to the entrance, turned back, hands on her waist.

"Oh, really? Guess what, House. I'm not interested." Her pitch trembled as she started raising her voice. "I don't want to know how you figured this place out, how you got here, why you just keep _being back_. I don't..."

House finally managed to stand up. He moved some troubled steps towards her.

"Listen..." He murmured.

"No. Not this time, House. I saved your life, whatever it was that you were trying to accomplish, I won't be part of this. You're alive, go be alive somewhere else. Or..." She wiped some invisible tear from the inner corner of her eye with her thumb, then she pierced House's stare with hers, hissing her words at him. "Or just go kill yourself somewhere that I _can't_ know, so I won't be under an oath to save you."

This said, Cuddy turned back from House and walked to the entrance. She swiped her badge through the card reader and the automatic doors let her through. In a few seconds, ignoring the twinges of pain in his right thigh, House found himself standing behind her, his cane wedged between the doors to keep them apart.

"Wilson is dead." He declared through his gritted teeth. Then, he turned back and limped away from Cuddy's petrified look.


	5. Patterns

Chapter 5

**Patterns**

* * *

House was already limping his way across the street, The rain was heavy now, he was soaked, _again_.

_My last clean change._

He leaned against a street lamp, squeezing the cold, stony pole with his hand until the pain in his leg was overcome by the one in his fingers.

"What happened."

He turned back to the street. Cuddy was standing there, as soaked as he was, her bag abandoned on the ground beside her. "What happened, House?" She yelled through the pouring rain and the wind.

House moved a step toward the edge of the curb.

"Can I..." He mimicked the gesture of approaching. "Or you're gonna call the police?"

Cuddy's expression did not change. "You stay where you are."

"Come on, this is ridiculous!" House realized the whole exchange, with the two of them actually yelling to overcome the noise of the heavy rain and the vehicles on the street, had had people stop and stare at the scene. He lowered his voice. "this is _ridiculous_."

Cuddy bit her lower lip and let her stare wander low, studying the texture of the flooded ground, for a few seconds. Then she flashed a silent glance at House and crossed the street.

"All right." She declared. "Look, if this was a way to get me to talk to you, it's..."

"He's dead, Cuddy. He's in your morgue. If you don't believe me, just go and see for yourself." House found himself hissing at Cuddy now. There was no way he could feel less guilty or less worthy of Cuddy's hate, but Wilson's death was not something he would have used for any agenda of his, ever. Their faces were inches apart now.

"I wanted to tell you before Wilson's mother showed up in your office. Before Foreman called you." Cuddy seemed to be eventually hit by the truth, even though her eyes still betrayed some sense of surprise and disbelief.

"House..." She whispered.

"I'm sorry you had to know this way. I wanted to be softer but you almost cut off my family jewels with that stupid automatic door." House's joke was betrayed by the deadly dark pitch in his voice.

Cuddy's lips tightened. She did not know what to reply. She did not know anything in fact.

"We need to talk." She declared.

"Indeed." House crossed his arms, "I'm fine with the rain, kinda sets the mood of the conversation."

"Damn it, House." Cuddy grabbed her bag. "Just... shut up."

This said, she took herself off towards the parking lot, a puzzled House limping his way behind her, carrying his backpack.

–

"I mourned you. I swear to god, House..." Cuddy was pacing the room, pulling her hair back with one hand, the other holding her forehead. "...I _cried_ for you. And here. You. _Are_."

"Why didn't you show up at my funeral?" House asked. He was sprawled on the couch, wearing an old t-shirt of Cuddy's, something she had pretended he hadn't left behind and she had kept. Cuddy stopped pacing and turned back, hands on her hips.

"Is this even a real conversation?"

"I'm clearly not dead, so it is." House replied.

"Yet you're here asking why I wasn't at your... _funeral_..." Cuddy raised her stare up to ceiling, but that did not help: there were no answers there, only the noise of the rain hitting the roof. "I couldn't. I... couldn't be there because... I couldn't take it. Which is not even a reason." She admitted, spreading her arms helplessly.

"Okay" House raised his brow. "I can live with that."

"House, this is... Six months ago I sat here and I swear I... I drained my eyes _over your dead body_." Cuddy leaned back against the wall of her not-so-new-anymore living room. "I felt responsible for you, for what happened between us... I felt like I shouldn't have left. I felt bad, House. For you. And you were alive all along."

"I had my reasons." He whispered.

"Oh, I'm sure you had. You _always_ have your reasons. I was devastated, House. Foreman called me, he said something had happened and you were dead and that he would tell me in person what it was all about. I just. _I hung up_." Cuddy hissed. She started pacing the room again and House felt nauseated. Was that the same pain he had provoked in everybody else? He still believed that his choice had been the right one, but seeing the effects of it in Cuddy's eyes, in her pain and surprise, it was different. It made more real something that had been kept between him and Wilson since the beginning. She turned back to him, her eyes circled and misty.

"I felt guilty because you were dead and I was too late to do anything about it." She sighed, trying to restrain the tears. "Even though I left, I couldn't..." She swallowed the tears. "I couldn't help it."

"I'm sorry. That was just about me, and... I'm _sorry_."

"I bet you are, House. And then yesterday, when they sent us out to rescue a floater, and the wave came and _it was you_ on the foreshore, I..." She couldn't continue. "Whatever the hell happened, House, I deserve to know."

"I know you do."

Cuddy sat down on the coffee table, in front of House: she was wrapped up in the same quilt she had in Princeton. House felt like a flashback was happening, but he was changed forever, and she was changed forever, and everything was different because there was no Wilson in his life anymore, and there was no Cuddy in his life anymore. Because the woman staring at him through the tears was someone who could clearly never, ever love him or even like him again. House felt defeated, and tired. He hadn't eaten since the night before Wilson had taken a turn for the worse, and he had had no painkillers. The only thing forcing his blood through his veins since the night before was the IV saline from the hospital. He took a breath.

"Wilson got cancer. Thymoma. We found out at stage two. We gave chemo a chance, didn't work. He refused every cure from that moment on."

Cuddy brought a hand to her mouth, and ran a line down to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to process.

"Why did he do that?"

"His choice. His life. Dignity, he said. Crap like that. Lasted six months."

Cuddy saw the pain in House's eyes. It was impalpable, floating like that in his blue irises, careless of the damage it was bringing, invincibly taking over the light they always carried.

"I am so sorry." She could barely hear her own voice.

House did not answer. He just stared at Cuddy for endless seconds, then turned paler than ever, and started shaking slightly. She jumped on her feet and got to him before he could slide to the floor. She laid him down on the couch, feeling his forehead with the palm of her hand.

"It's okay," She whispered. "You need sugars. I'll be right back."

House looked up at her, helpless. This was not something he had anticipated. He felt so sick that the slightest movement made him dizzy and nauseous like he was being shaken by a storm at sea.

"He's... he's gone, Cuddy." He stammered. A lone tear rolled down his cheek. Then it all went dark.

–

A ray of sunshine flashed through the windowpane: the breeze had the curtains move slightly so that the light had had him awaken. He could see the sea pushing its way between the two white lines of semi-detached houses shining bright in the morning light. It must be fifteen to twenty minutes on foot from Cuddy's house. The entire room was lit by the sun, and the apartment seemed empty. House wondered where Rachel was, and why Cuddy was nowhere to be seen. He sat up and flashed a glance at the coffee table, where he saw pieces of his troubled night. An empty teacup, chocolate snack wrapping, ibuprofen, a half-bitten apple. He found his cane laid beside him on the ground and stood up. A few minutes later, all his possessions were back into the backpack and he was walking in direction of the sea. Whatever he was going to decide on doing, he needed to get his motorbike back. _One thing at a time_, he thought, even though he could not see the next "one thing" he would have to face. In any case, leaving that house was the first thing to do. Cuddy was clearly gone, and if she was gone it could mean only one thing: she did not want to have anything else to do with him. For the millionth time, Cuddy was trying to cut the cord he unwillingly stitched back in place _every damn time_. And today House felt like it had to be definitive. No goodbyes, no admissions of guilt, no tears and no risks to fall back into old patterns which had already proven themselves dangerous on both sides. House felt it coming, the loneliness. Silent, velvet-pawed like a cat who creeps into a room.

"House, wait!"

He turned back. Cuddy was standing on the curb, screening her eyes from the sun of California hitting her like a precious stone.

_She's beautiful._

"Yeah." He whispered.

"What happened back then?"

House understood immediately. He made as if to start speaking, but the weight of the wholesome of time Cuddy had not been part of hit him before he could utter one single word. He just pierced her with his stare until she had to look away.

"I... I slept in. Heard you slam the door closed. As always." She tried to joke.

House did not follow. He remained serious, which made her get chills down her spine.

"You really want to know."

"I do."

"I turned myself in and went to jail." He said, in a tone that did not betray the slightest feeling.

Cuddy bit her lower lip.

"Kind of served you right." She admitted.

"Yeah. That's it." House adjusted his backpack on his shoulders and took a couple steps.

"Wait! House, wait." Cuddy had crossed the street now. She was right behind him, her hand on his left shoulder. House turned back quickly. If there was anything he could not take, it was her touch. Not anymore. It made him feel weak, as if he could just fall back into his addiction to her, again. Cuddy retracted her hand immediately.

"What is it now?" House whispered.

"I'm going to work. Missed my shift last night." She declared. House raised his brow.

"...okay?"

Cuddy looked away for a second, looking undecided, but it lasted too little to prevent her from doing what she was about to do.

"I'll be back by six o'clock. And..." She knew this was wrong. Oh, _so_ wrong. "You'll be here, and you'll tell me everything about it."

House's look of utter and deep surprise made her almost smile. If the topic hadn't been that tragic.


	6. Nocturne

Chapter 6

**Nocturne **

House sat down on Cuddy's couch, looking silently at her. She leaned back against the wall, just like the night before.

"Where's your daughter?" He asked.

"Disneyland with Julia."

"What do you do at the hospital?"

"House, this is not..."

"Come on," House crossed his arms on his chest and sat back. "you want to know, I want to know."

"Medical director." She admitted. Blushing, she just turned from House.

"Up high, doctor Cuddy."

"Yeah." She turned back.

House pierced her with a glance.

"Are you..." He hesitated for a second. "Are you _happy_?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Yeah, okay."

They just sat there in silence, until House seemed to realize something.

"If you're Chief over there, what were you doing at the pier yesterday?"

Cuddy bit her lower lip.

"I... uh."

House looked at her, puzzled.

_What the hell was she doing there._

"I was..." Cuddy escaped eye contact. "I was working in my office, first floor. You know I don't like heights. They got me a room with a view of the sea."

"So, you took a dive from there."

"House..." She raised her hands, resigned. "I was just taking a break, I flashed a glance at the pier and I saw... someone." She shook her head. "I saw _you_."

"I was dead to you." House whispered.

"I know, right?" Cuddy spread her arms. "I know. But I saw you and I just... I must've been out of my mind, House. But I dropped everything and I rushed out..."

House was starting to embrace the meaning of it all, the incredible weight of what had happened.

"It was deserted. It was about to start _pouring_, and _no one _was there. I..." He shook his head. "I was sure nobody was going to notice. And you _followed_ me."

Cuddy's chin trembled.

"I thought I had gone crazy. You were dead. And it... it had to be you." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I wasn't thinking."

"And then I jumped off the pier."

"You did." She whispered. "It took me a bit to get to the boardwalk. By then, I could only see someone jump in the distance, and..." She wiped a tear from her eye. "When the wave came, it was you indeed."

So, Cuddy had seen him. _Talk about chance._

"You saved me on a hunch."

"I _followed_ you on a hunch. A pretty insane one. Would've saved anyone."

"Yet, here I am because you have a boring job."

Cuddy giggled. "It's not that bad."

"Yeah, sure!" House flashed her a smile. It was the very first time in ages that they were laughing at the same thing. As soon as he realized that, he turned serious.

"I owe my life to you. Once again."

"You don't owe me anything, House." Cuddy's eyes reflected some hidden nuance of relief. "You are a mindless son of a bitch, but I'm under an oath to do no harm." She joked.

"Still, I'm here today because you're an irrational idiot. Thank you. Sorry I threw up on you,"

"You're welcome." Cuddy sat down in the armchair and propped her knees to her chest. "It was clearly _not_ your time to go."

"You think so?" House was deadly serious now. There was a new darkness shadowing his blue irises. Cuddy sat up.

"House..." She whispered.

But House did not reply. Instead, he stood up and limped to the piano. He opened it.

"How come you have a piano in here?"

"It's Rachel's." Cuddy smiled. "She started taking classes. She's good."

House looked down at the keys. How long had passed since he had last touched a piano? Months of distractions, and life-changing events... months of distance from his own instrument. He found himself wondering what could be of _his_ piano. None of the possible answers made him feel good.

"I know you miss him." Cuddy whispered from where she was. There was no need to specify. The absence of Wilson lingered all around, heavy, irremediable, it saturated the air. House did not comment on that. He gently placed his hands over the keys and caressed them, slowly, like they were delicate creatures that could break at the slightest touch. Cuddy's eyes filled with tears.

_What the hell is happening here. Why am I feeling this way._

"House..." She stood up and moved a step towards the piano. House turned to her.

"I _do_ miss him." His voice came out as low as the chord that resounded all around, bouncing from wall to wall, piercing their bodies right through. "I miss him," House whispered. "And I wish I was the one of us who died."

His hands slid down to his lap. He faced the piano, helplessly. Cuddy looked away.

"I couldn't let you die." She murmured. Her voice was slightly more audible than the wind outside.

"I know. I didn't want to die. I still don't. Not at this point." House took a breath. "_Wilson_ got cancer. I missed my chance then. All the rest is meaningless."

"Why did you jump then?" Cuddy asked.

House flashed her a glance.

Then, he started playing. A slow tune.

_C, E7, A minor... D._

_Hello there._

Cuddy saw the shadow of a shy, sincere smile forming on House's face. He kept playing, completely absorbed by his music. After a few seconds of silence, he began a soft, sorrowful but somehow lively tune. Chopin's first Nocturne in C sharp minor from his Opus 27. A curve of major and minor arpeggios filled the room and blended with the sound of the wind blowing outside. House felt his insides come alive in that fine, tragic music: the pain was somehow replaced by the conscience that he was still able to feel, that he was numbed no more. Somehow, the state of deep, intense prostration that came from the vibrating inside of Rachel's piano had turned into House's infected lymph leaking out, finally allowed to surface.

Then, his hands dancing from one key to another, House turned to Cuddy.

"So. I gave you the hairbrush back." He declared.

She needed a few seconds to process. House kept playing his tune.

"Then, I took a plane to somewhere. But I turned myself in after three months." He hesitated for a second.

_Larghetto._

"I was in jail for eighteen months."

_Più mosso. Sunshine in his fingers. Major arpeggios and that persistent, vehement touch of the right hand._

"And then, Foreman got me out on parole, because of two sick lungs..."

_Larghetto. That is my goddamn life. Restless. _

Cuddy sat back.

_It's going to be a long night._

_Adagio._


	7. Curiosity

Chapter 7

**Curiosity**

* * *

"So, what are you gonna do?" Cuddy zipped her bag closed and carried it to the hallway.

"I'll figure something out." House declared. His bike was parked on the street, and his backpack lay on the curb.

"House..." She took a step closer, but House stepped aside. He went for the door.

"Thank you for everything. Please cry at the funeral so everybody will keep believing." The sadness surrounding House like an aura was lifted for a second from his shoulders, as he addressed Cuddy with a smirk.

"Believing _what_?" She asked, tilting her head aside in fake indignation.

"That you're a woman. They're gonna figure you out in no time if you don't shed a tear and act all manly."

"Go to hell, House. I'll keep that in mind."

"You know I'm on your side." He grinned.

House limped his way to the street. As a twinge of pain in his leg made him slow down his pace, Cuddy could not help but walk out and reach him. He escaped eye-contact as she grabbed his forearm, causing him to turn back.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid." She whispered.

"I'll be fine." House was not joking anymore. She could tell his seriousness from the chills she got when his stare pierced her right through.

"Jesus, House. That was scary." Cuddy looked away, smiling.

"I'm sorry."

"I... I was joking." She stammered.

"I know. And. I'm sorry." House was now breathing heavily.

_You know why._

His leg pounding, he pulled away from Cuddy's grip on his arm.

"So, have a good time back home. Say hi for me... Oh, _well_."

"I'll bring flowers to your grave." She spread her arms, an unwilling grin forming on her lips at House's dark joke.

_Only he could find this funny, for god's sake. And here I am, joking over his goddamn death._

"Choose wisely."

"I will."

House turned serious as they stood there in the sun and the warmth of early autumn in California.

"Cuddy." House's pitch turned her stomach upside-down.

"Yeah?" She replied quickly, indifferently.

"I swear to you, he was at peace." He whispered.

Cuddy felt her eyes prickling from the inside. She bit her lower lip and looked away for a second, trying to wipe away the mist in her sight. Then, she raised her stare up to House.

"I know. He was with you."

They parted ways.

* * *

a/n: this was short, I know. But there's a narrative reason to end the chapter here and by the way I have ch. 8 written already, so don't panic. :D


	8. Another season

a/n: so hey, look who's back. Life has been messy and I just lost any drive for writing anything... and then tonight I was in the mood to revise this chapter, which has been sitting in my laptop for months, untouched. Please take a moment to forgive me and read this... :)

* * *

Chapter 8

**Another day, another season**

* * *

**one week later**

–

_I hate this place._

Cuddy grabbed an abandoned cart and pulled it close with one hand, keeping Rachel hooked with her free one.

"Mommy!" The little girl protested loudly at Cuddy literally dragging her all the way to the baggage claim carousels.

"Come on honey," Cuddy did not slow down. "I need to be at work in two hours."

Five minutes later, they were standing on what seemed to be a rolling carpet headed to infinity. Rachel was wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Cuddy leaned against the handrail to prevent herself from collapsing into a coma on the very spot.

"Hey mom, we can go faster!" The little girl seemed to have still enough energy to find amusement in the most boring, and apparently deserted airport trip they had ever had. No one seemed to be interested in San Francisco, and that was a peaceful interlude between the funeral, the family reunion in New Jersey and the dive Cuddy would be forced to take into the confusion and the noise and the mess of people in the city, all feeling sick, collapsing, having accidents, being shot, robbed, raped, ending up in her Emergency Room, in the hands of her surgeons, obstetricians, psychologists, nurses... The life of the hospital was the exacerbated reflection of the life in that city full of slopes: steep and complicated.

The very thought that being at Wilson's funeral, back in Princeton, had given her some sort of peace of mind, some time of silence and soul-searching, all this could not help but make Cuddy angrier than she was already: how could a _funeral_ make her feel at peace? _Wilson's_ funeral? That was just a symptom of the profound unease she was experiencing away from the place she still saw as her home after being away for over two years, that same discomfort that seeing House again had brought to skin-deep level. Cuddy felt eradicated and irremediably lost, and that goddamn rolling carpet was just _so endless_.

And then, House's _face_ passed her by, speeding along in the opposite direction. Cuddy screwed her eyes closed for a split second, then turned back.

"House!"

He turned to her. He was carrying the smallest carry-on bag ever. At least for someone who was clearly going somewhere far: he was wearing a dark blue blouse over a white shirt, and was clean-shaven, which was in itself kind of extraordinary, if it had not been for the sunglasses and what seemed like an oversized, dark orange backpack with a large red cross sewn on its side. Cuddy kept staring at him, incapable of collecting her thoughts and connecting the dots of House's presence there.

"What..." She stammered. "What _the_ _hell_..."

House seemed just as surprised. Anyway, that lasted the fraction of a second as his expression turned reassuringly snarky.

"Gotta win the Nobel prize you know!" He yelled, as the rolling carpet pushed him farther from her every second.

"What are you talking about?" Cuddy tried to fight the carpet, but she only succeeded in getting defeated. "_House_!" She staggered almost up to him, holding on to the handrail.

He turned serious.

"'Bye, Cuddy." He whispered.

"What? House!" Cuddy was being dragged from him again. "_Damnit_!"

She saw his eyes getting brighter for a second. "Where are you going?"

"Somalia!" He was getting smaller. His voice was now dim.

"_Are you out of your fucking mind?_" Cuddy was now yelling the words at the top of her lungs. "House! _House_!"

_Who's House? _were the last words she could hear from him, before the blinding light of a quiet, tireless California sun swallowed his shape and shadow away from her sight.

When Cuddy turned back, Rachel was standing in front of her, bouncing up and down with the biggest smile ever depicted on her delicate features.

"That was _House_!"

_Yeah. It was. _

–

Later that afternoon, Cuddy pulled over by her lawn. On the doorstep, a handwritten sticky note.

_Still curious about last year? Wait and see._ _xo House_

Now, whatever that meant, Cuddy was frankly having trouble figuring out any ways in which House could satisfy what she was masking as curiosity, in order to hide the home sickness. As soon as she lowered her stare, though, she noticed a white envelope wedged underneath the door. Inside, some reference numbers to what seemed to be someone's bank account. _Wilson's_ bank account.

_He left me these, though he said not to buy my way into Vicodin overdose. Your house is still for sale as for yesterday, so please go back home and stop being miserable, for god's sake. I won't be there ever again. _

_Cheers._

_H._

Cuddy stood there for a few seconds, then she felt the weight of her own blank, astonished stare fixed on the inked words. All she could think about was House's gaze crossing hers while their lives were being pushed farther away one from the other.

–

That night, while her daughter was tucked up safely in her bed, Cuddy kneeled down in front of the bow window in the living room and leaned aside, her cheek touching the cool glass panel. For endless minutes she looked at the spot where she had said goodbye to House the week before Wilson's funeral.

She fell asleep like that, knees propped up to her chest, shaken by the power of trouble finding her wherever she went, and the power of destiny, luck, chance... or whatever it was that kept intertwining her life with House's.

And suddenly, it was another day, another season, another year. She was dressed in hospital scrubs and she could feel how time had passed between her last memory of a distant life, and the present moment. She knew that some time in her past she had slept on the floor of her house in California, and she was aware of some sort of breakthrough happening on that very night. Long ago, that moment had changed her life once again. Where she was now, though, she could not say. It was hot and she was sweaty, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, nevertheless she was feeling the heat pressing tirelessly on her whole body. She was looking for someone, and the urge to find them was setting her nerves on edge.

"Where is he? I need to see him, _now_." Cuddy heard her own voice coming from her body, although she wasn't even sure whom she was talking to. A beautiful young woman turned to her. Her dark complexion made her eyes shine in the sun, and her curly hair were cut short and messy. She had sweet, calm manners when she approached Cuddy and took her hand in hers.

"I'll get you what we have. I'm sorry." The woman whispered.

Cuddy's heart skipped a couple beats.

"I need to see him. I... I _must_." She uttered, but her voice wasn't coming out as steady as it should have.

"I'll get you what we have." The woman repeated.

In a flash of light, Cuddy found herself seated on a wooden chair that looked like it was a hundred years old. She was looking at a name badge with an ID picture, and a blood-spattered, torn white shirt.

_Gregory House. Nobel prize 2013 in False Identity. Butchered by terrorists in fucking Somalia._

–

Cuddy woke up early, shivering and hurting. By the time she realized what she had been dreaming about, she knew that was the very last day she would spend in California.

* * *

Three weeks later, a white envelope was dropped in Cuddy's mailbox at the break of dawn, while the neighborhood was still sleeping underneath its first snowfall. Everything was different and the same in Princeton, New Jersey.


End file.
